


I Love You (Whoops)

by politely_ironic



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Trust Issues, commitment issues, mentioned Gavroche and Azelma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-15
Updated: 2015-03-15
Packaged: 2018-03-17 21:45:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3544889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/politely_ironic/pseuds/politely_ironic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Combeferre is not the cuddling type. He gets too hot and in turn sweats, and then uncomfortably extricates himself. Courfeyrac always complains about it, since he is really the only person who, up to this point, had any significant experience with it. He’s never really desired physical closeness, prefers to simply to be emotionally and mentally available. But he supposes there are always exceptions to the rule. And now, he is presented with one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Love You (Whoops)

**Author's Note:**

> encouraged by the ever present serenier

Combeferre is not the cuddling type. He gets too hot and in turn sweats, and then uncomfortably extricates himself. Courfeyrac always complains about it, since he is really the only person who, up to this point, had any significant experience with it. He’s never really desired physical closeness, prefers to simply to be emotionally and mentally available. But he supposes there are always exceptions to the rule. And now, he is presented with one.

Éponine Thénardier is five feet, five inches tall. Her hair is short, cut close to her skull, and a brilliant plethora of bright colors. He likes her immediately. They become friends after a good month of being aware of each other. They are an unlikely pair, and Enjolras says so. Combeferre is alright with that, though. And then a year into that, Éponine kisses him on the mouth at their Christmas party. And then a year after that, they start dating. Seven months in, they move in together.

Combeferre always takes her to get her hair dyed, sits at the salon in one of the mildly uncomfortable chairs writing his novel, which will then sit unfinished with ten others. He always has found it easier to begin than to maintain, which is probably why he likes Éponine, who is the exact opposite of maintenance. She is largely independent, will disappear for days at a time and come back, perhaps with a new tattoo, and always with a new story to tell. He doesn’t expect them to last long, is always surprised when another month has passed by serenely. Éponine is a firecracker and Combeferre is a wet blanket. It shouldn’t work.

It does.

Until it doesn’t.

Éponine comes back after a record two weeks of absence. It’s raining when she enters their apartment, in her big leather boots, tromping around the livingroom. Combeferre is on the couch, and looks up at her, relief plain on his face. It’s around 1AM. He hasn’t slept well since she left.  
“Hey,” she says, smiling a little bit. She is like a waterlogged kitten, and Combeferre hurriedly shuffles to the bathroom, in his boxers. He comes back bearing towels, and in the meantime, Éponine has undressed. She is wearing nothing but her cotton underwear, which makes Combeferre blink and clear his throat, though he’s seen her like this plenty of times. He missed her intensely. The ache of her absence has dissipated. Her small smile turns into a wicked grin and he retaliates by wrapping her quickly in cloth, kissing her delicately on the forehead. Holding her close, he whispers hotly across her cold scalp,  
“I was worried.” He can feel her tremble in his arms, probably from the cold. Releasing her, he steps back to examine her. She hasn’t slept, and her makeup is running, dried flecks of mascara on her cheeks, which are now bright red. She holds the towel to her chest and Combeferre can feel her erratic energy, so instead of talking, he leads her to the sofa and gently dries her hair, which is almost completely dry when he finishes. It’s shorter than it was before, and is now more of a dull red. She probably dyed it while she was away. He wants to ask, wants to ask why she was gone for so long, but refrains, instead holding her against him, arms crossed protectively around her chest, chin resting on her head, legs framing hers. She’s covered in goosebumps, and for a long time, they sit, watching the nature documentary Combeferre has been watching. 

Around 4AM, Éponine dozes, and Combeferre takes the opportunity to shut the tv off, and ease out from under her. He picks her up, carefully carrying her to their bedroom. She’s actually gained a little weight, and Combeferre thanks God for that. Hes not particularly religious, but then again, Éponine makes him do things he never expected to. He can remember a time where she weighed nothing, where she was more of a skeleton than a person. Putting on weight is hard for her, and he gets an injection of pride whenever she does. He takes one of his own shirts from the closet, because he knows she likes to sleep in them, and dresses her in it. She sleeps like the dead, probably exhausted. Wondering what the hell happened to her, he’s tempted to search her pockets or something, but he’s also exhausted. He never sleeps well when she leaves him, especially like this, without any warning. She usually tells him that she’s going somewhere, exploring, visiting relatives and friends. He’s almost sure they’re always lies, but he’s glad to have something. Sometimes he suspects she’s just cheating on him, but often gets the impression that it wouldn’t be just that. She is a complicated person, with many, many traumas that he does not understand, or know the depth of. He loves her all the same, which is probably a bad idea. He’s always been a logical person, never really given to strong emotion. Even when he was infatuated with Enjolras, he recognized it would probably never happen. And yet here he is with the most illogical decision he’s ever made, spooning her, even. 

In the morning, Combeferre texts all of their mutual friends that she is back, which is a relief. They were about to call the police, since he couldn’t hold them back anymore. He even texts Montparnasse from Éponine’s phone. Her password, he discovers, is still his birthday. He is awake far before her, and leaves her in the bed, perhaps to wake up alone, like he had yesterday, and the day before that, and the week before that. Combeferre is not a cruel man, however, and makes her breakfast, her favorite, the pancakes with the chocolate chip faces. He is at home in the kitchen, enjoys cooking for all its worth. He turns the television on for the sake of white noise, changing the channel to find the early morning cartoons. Nostalgia is a necessary comfort for the fight that will surely come. 

Éponine walks out of their bedroom, yawning. He can hear her from the hall. Then she walks into the bathroom as he’s doing the dishes. She sings in the shower, a happy song, presumably because she’s glad to be home. For however long she’s home. He can’t keep doing this, he realizes, as he approaches the couch. She can’t leave like this anymore, because now he loves her. They have been dating for a year, and all this time, he’d been afraid of this, of caring about her like this. They had been dancing around each other for so long, both afraid to commit, and now Combeferre is ready. But Éponine, Éponine probably will never be. The only reason they started dating in the first place was to please others, fix the obvious tension between Enjolras and Éponine. He clenches his fist, grits his teeth, and waits, his own anger towards himself growing. How could he have been so stupid, how could he let it happen? He’d always teetered on the edge of it, but he’d never said it. He’d always been so careful about it, didn’t want to scare her away. But now he was going to, at the wrong place and the wrong time. 

Éponine waltzes into the kitchen, humming,  
“Que seras seras, whatever will be will be, the future’s not ours to see, que seras seras,” He listens to her grab a plate, thanking him loudly. He listens to her eat, and she chatter aimlessly, talking about how nice it is in Alabama this time of year, sweltering and full of hicks. She loves warm weather, would give anything to move the fuck out of Washington, if they could afford it. But they can’t, so she settles for dreaming. Combeferre is never much of a talker, and today is no exception. Today is an abnormally sunny day, and he sits in a ray of light, thinking only on how much he’ll miss her. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever be alright again if he messes this up. By which, he means, that he knows he will, but he doesn’t really know it. He’s already broken up with her in his head, and it hurts like a bitch. 

Éponine finishes her breakfast, and plops down beside him. He doesn’t know how to start, so he falls back on his default.  
“How did you sleep?”  
“Good. I haven’t been sleeping well lately, though, so any sleep is good sleep.”  
“I can tell.” he says, and she is quiet. The silence stretches between them, and he hates this.  
“‘Ferre?” She asks hesitantly, and he looks at her, takes her in. Her hair is a little wet, and she’s in another one of his shirts, legs bare. She’s curled up next to him, leaning against him. Unfortunately for him, she’s beautiful. Combeferre can’t help it; he touches her cheek, and when she leans into his hand, he kisses her ferociously, in a way he never has before. She stiffens slightly, and then relaxes, allows him to work her mouth open, warm and gentle. He kisses her like he loves her, and he can tell that she’s confused.  
“What’s wrong, Ferre?” she separates her mouth from him, him following for a second even after they stop. He moves his hands to her elbows, touching them reassuringly.  
“I love you, did you know that?” he blurts conversationally, looking down at her arms.  
“No, I didn’t, actually.” she sounds shell-shocked.  
“Well I. I do. So.”  
“So.”  
“You don’t have to reciprocate-”  
“Alright.” she replies simply, and Combeferre squashes the swell of disappointment.  
“I’d just appreciate it if you could just…stay here.”  
“Stay here?”  
“Stay as in, don’t leave so much.”  
“Uh, ‘Ferre?” she says, alarmed. He’s holding her progressively tighter, unconsciously.  
“Sorry. I just. If you want to cheat on me that’s fine, can you please just do it closer to home?”  
“I’m not cheating.” She sounds horrified.  
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to accuse you, I have no basis for that accusation. I’m just paranoid because you leave for two weeks and you don’t tell me where you’re going and I get so worried, I worry myself sick and I can't sleep or get anything done because I'm terrified I'll find you dead in a ditch and I’d much prefer it be something like that than you’re a part of some underground drug ring or you’re a secret agent for the Russian government or you’re really leading a double life and you have a wife and children in goddamn Alabama.” He looks up at her, pleading.  
“Why the Russian government?” she asks, staring into his eyes measuredly.  
“Because you’re totally femme fatale and clearly, those only come from Russia.”  
“Fair.” she responds.  
“Just... tell me, Ep.” He sounds so resigned; she sighs, and looks at her hands.  
“This is probably the last time, anyways,” she glances at him, and he’s still staring at her intently. She glares back down at her hands. “If you must know, I left to go help my younger brother and sister officially emancipate from my parents. They’re in foster care now.”  
“Why didn’t you just tell me that?” He sounds furious, even to his own ears. She flinches and he relaxes immediately.  
“Because then you’d get involved,” she says, an edge to her voice.  
“So?”  
“It doesn’t concern you.”  
“You concern me. I think it’s fair to assume that when you leave for such a long period of time without explanation, I will not react well.”  
“It’s my life, you don’t own me.” She shoots him a withering gaze and he falters.  
“I don’t,” he says helplessly.  
“You have no right to tell me what to do.”  
“I don’t,” he repeats miserably. She takes his hands.  
“This? This is commitment. You know I can’t--” her voice breaks as she presses his hands to her chest, where her heart is beating wildly.  
“I know.”  
“What do you want me to do?” She looks lost, and tucks her head under his chin, his hands still pressed against her frantic pulse.  
“Preferably stay for as long as you can,” he says simply, removing his hands from hers.  
“Will you make me?”  
“I can’t make you do anything.”  
“Azelma is graduating in a month. She already has two jobs. She plans on supporting herself and Gavroche till he graduates. She’s going to run herself into the ground.”  
“We can assist. We have the means--”  
“I don’t want your parents’ money. We’re not some charity case for you philanthropic rich people.” In the back of his mind, he remembers when he first used that word to her, how she'd looked at him like he'd grown two heads.  
“I meant us, Ep. You and I could help. We’re adults. We can--”  
“I have to do it on my own--”  
“Why? Why can’t I help?”  
“Because when you leave I’m fucked.”  
“Éponine.”  
“No, ‘Ferre. I can’t owe you anything--”  
“You won’t; I want to. We’ve been together for a long time, Ep, don’t you trust me just a bit more than your average Joe?” he asks, afraid of the answer. When she doesn’t respond he sighs, and stands up abruptly.  
“What am I good for if you don’t trust me at all? What am I to you? I know what you are to me. But it’s not the same is it? I’m not asking you to love me, I just don’t want you to waste your time anymore.” he says quietly, calmly. Combeferre has never been a screamer. But he feels like it at this moment.  
“I-I’m sorry, I just...” Éponine looks up at him, face ashen. “...I don’t want to lose you.” she begins quietly, and he goes down on one knee.  
“Just try to trust me a little bit, okay? We can do this, and we can do it together.”  
“Okay.” She concedes finally, and he smiles weakly at her.  
“You really love me?”  
“I do.”  
“You couldn’t sleep when I left?”  
“No.”  
She smiles and he, in spite of himself, grins back.  
“I’m sorry, I’m not laughing at your pain.”  
“Don’t lie to me.”  
“Never. Cross my heart and hope to die.”  
“Don’t say that. You’ll be dead by morning.”  
“At least I’ll die next to someone who loves me.”  
“Of course,” he says, picking her up and carrying her to their bedroom. She protests wearily, but gives in quickly. Gently laying her down on the bed, Combeferre clambers on ontop of her, grinning.  
"It's only noon. We don't have to go anywhere till 6. Everyone wants to see you, you know." he whispers in her ear, as he holds his body separate from hers. Her breath catches.  
"Why don't we take a nap then, hm? Or we could watch some netflix?" she questions, as he runs his nose along her neck.  
"Sure," he says, and she runs her hands down his back, stopping just before his ass,  
"What are you waiting for?" she insists, even as she's putting pressure there, suggesting she wants him to lower his hips. He does and she grinds her belly up into him, earning her a startled huff of breath in response.  
"Can we just...be here for a little while?" he asks, as he lifts his head and kisses her, very wary of her reaction. She reciprocates, in full. He's never desired physical contact before Éponine, but there are always exceptions. He grins, and God, doesn't he love her?


End file.
